“Hoo are ye to get her oot?” he repeated.  “I’ll show ye hoo!” He advanced as rapidly as his gouty feet would let him, and knocked at the bedroom door.  “Eh, my leddy! here he is in flesh and bluid.  Mercy preserve us! do ye lock the door of the nuptial chamber in your husband’s face?”

At that unanswerable appeal the lock was heard turning in the door.  Mr. Bishopriggs winked at Arnold with his one available eye, and laid his forefinger knowingly along his enormous nose.  “I’m away before she falls into your arms!  Rely on it I’ll no come in again without knocking first!”

He left Arnold alone in the room.  The bedroom door opened slowly by a few inches at a time.  Anne’s voice was just audible speaking cautiously behind it.

“Is that you, Geoffrey?”

Arnold’s heart began to beat fast, in anticipation of the disclosure which was now close at hand.  He knew neither what to say or do—­he remained silent.

Anne repeated the question in louder tones: 

“Is that you?”

There was the certain prospect of alarming her, if some reply was not given.  There was no help for it.  Come what come might, Arnold answered, in a whisper: 

“Yes.”

The door was flung wide open.  Anne Silvester appeared on the threshold, confronting him.

“Mr. Brinkworth!!!” she exclaimed, standing petrified with astonishment.

For a moment more neither of them spoke.  Anne advanced one step into the sitting-room, and put the next inevitable question, with an instantaneous change from surprise to suspicion.

“What do you want here?”

Geoffrey’s letter represented the only possible excuse for Arnold’s appearance in that place, and at that time.

“I have got a letter for you,” he said—­and offered it to her.

She was instantly on her guard.  They were little better than strangers to each other, as Arnold had said.  A sickening presentiment of some treachery on Geoffrey’s part struck cold to her heart.  She refused to take the letter.

“I expect no letter,” she said.  “Who told you I was here?” She put the question, not only with a tone of suspicion, but with a look of contempt.  The look was not an easy one for a man to bear.  It required a momentary exertion of self-control on Arnold’s part, before he could trust himself to answer with due consideration for her.  “Is there a watch set on my actions?” she went on, with rising anger.  “And are you the spy?”

“You haven’t known me very long, Miss Silvester,” Arnold answered, quietly.  “But you ought to know me better than to say that.  I am the bearer of a letter from Geoffrey.”

She was an the point of following his example, and of speaking of Geoffrey by his Christian name, on her side.  But she checked herself, before the word had passed her lips.

“Do you mean Mr. Delamayn?” she asked, coldly.

“Yes.”